Shanty Slum Squaler(Were Never Returning to This Town)

& The Equinox falls, so drench the goblet with that potent elixir of mead, sweet as those forgotten days of summer. That sensation bitter as the taste of winter, & we're cruising past those colorful highways. These downtown alleys cloaked as busted bar lights flicker across the greasy windows.The winding streets roaring with drunken floods of bikers. Jackets & faces woven in leather. Got a couple a cheap tricks clinging to the back of their cycles,looking withered as the animal skins their alphas adorn. Revving engines & waving American flags around a Masonic lodge across from this shanty town. That gravel dirt road drifting with sand swept grounds, graffiti littered about its grimy tabletops, piss ridden dumpsters, & broken down fences, & the melting tiki faces drawn along the walls are gazing back at me like a witch doctor with a demented smirk. As parades of social animals scatter,congregated in segregation. Those thrilless thrill seekers,stoic as statues,a dystopian carnival of mirror house characters. These burned out winos glued to bar stools, lonely as the blues mans tune, & In the bright eyed faces around I see shadows of those dreamless old drunks in their distant mirrors,looming.... & The voice of ignorance yells FUCK! At the top of its lungs at the switch of each word. So I guess the dog being walked across the bar wasn't just a figment of my imagination after all, & A belligerent line of bikers storm the joint like they own it, one claiming “Romney was America's death vote Obama!”, A man who was partying it up on the other side in a White House division of hell owned by two sides of the same coin, Ha! Then again a vote, what a fucking joke, another silent scream covered up like the marksmen who fired the bullet in Kennedy's head, & that choice assumes the role of Lee Harvey Oswald as Americas voice lies at the bottom of a ballot box, stifled & dead. Staring down the barrel of Jack Ruby's gun.The electoral college rolling the dice for you, just like your “friends” at the C.I.A.Guess they're still spraying L.S.D in the air to create that fascist fantasy you believe is democracy. Laughter the only cure to life's hypocrisy, & that smell of sweat, booze, & cheap cigarette smoke cloak my essence in their aura like my looming shadows, hidden like the tin flask in my pocket. As these interludes of silence project a ghastly noise, & then the ritual vibrations commence. Magicians evoking energies to invoke a primal essence long lost in the devourers. Those adherents spiraling in possessed circles, the altar held the throne & our theater was the floor. Engulfed in circles of eyes, breathing down the back of your neck. A space tight as a virginal cunt, these glitches distorted in walls of contradiction, captured solely by intensities ear.